Cold Comfort
by Lena7142
Summary: They say that spywork can make a man cold, but for Billy and Casey, it's never been quite so literal.


**Title:** Cold Comfort  
**Author: **Lena7142  
**Genre:** Hurt/Comfort, Friendship  
**Characters:** Billy & Casey  
**A/N:**This started out as a drabble for Penless, but then rapidly spun out of control. Many thanks to Faye Dartmouth for her support and providing a beta. For the record, I hate driving in snowstorms almost to the point of being phobic, so that's sort of where this is coming from.

**Summary:** They say that spywork can make a man cold, but for Billy and Casey, it's never been quite so literal.

-o-

* * *

Billy is not a fan of winter driving.

The winters in the UK are fairly mild, so he rarely had to contend much with driving in the snow when he was a lad. And he's been fortunate enough to not have to execute many high-speed chases in the middle of any blizzards.

Well, fortunate up until now. Because the Russian weather is anything but mild, and the car is slipping and sliding across the road as he tries to maintain enough speed to outrun their pursuit without spinning out.

"Where the hell did you learn to drive?" Casey snarls, bracing himself in the passenger seat. He's pale from the cold as much as from nausea.

"Somewhere with plowed roads!" Billy snaps back. Normally he'd be up for a bit of banter to distract from the peril, but right now he needs all his concentration.

In the rearview mirror, he sees one of the trucks lose traction and slide off the road. One down, one to go.

His eyes flicker forward again, and he grimaces - through the flurry of snowflakes in the headlights, he can vaguely make out a turn into the road ahead. And he and Casey are careening toward it hard.

"Hang on t' something," he says, gritting his teeth. He turns the wheel and brakes hard as they hit the turn, and the car squeals and shrieks...

They spin around the turn.

The truck behind them doesn't, and keeps going straight until it hits a tree.

Casey glances over his shoulder, looking genuinely impressed. "I rescind my earlier detractions," he says, beginning to grin.

But Billy isn't grinning. Because Billy still hasn't got traction and while they're around the turn he can't straighten out and he can't slow down; there's nothing but ice beneath them. Casey's smile fades as he realizes this, and there's nothing more Billy can do except try to steer into the spin and pray.

"Hold on!" he shouts, then squeezes his eyes shut as the car goes off the road.

There's a shriek of twisting, rending metal, an awful crunching noise, and a thud that jars him down to his bones...

And then there's nothing but darkness.

-o-

Casey wakes slowly. It's quiet; there's a distinct absence of sound, broken only by a muffled clicking.

He opens his eyes, and it's dark. After a few seconds, though, his eyes acclimate to the bluish gloom, and he's able to make out his surroundings.

The first thing Casey notes is that he's in a car. The clicking, he can infer from there, is the sound of cooling metal. The second thing he notes is that the car has been in an accident; he's hanging from the seat-belt in an otherwise precarious position, and there's broken glass from the windshield glittering everywhere.

The third thing he notes is that it's _cold._

Then, it all comes back. Running from Dragunov's men. The chase on the icy backroads. Billy taking a sharp turn and the car spinning out of control...

Casey groans. The memory seems to remind his body that it ought to be feeling pain right now, and the aches begin to settle in. He has whiplash, and there's a sharp agony in his knee that could mean bad news.

But he also remembers that he's not the only one in the car. It hurts to turn his head, but when he does he makes out Billy's shape below him and to the left, lying against the window.

"Collins," he says, his voice muted by the snow that's now falling in through the shattered windshield, deadening the world. "Collins, are you okay?"

Billy doesn't move, but there's a faint moan - almost a whine - from the other side of the car, and Casey slumps in relief. Collins is alive, if nothing else.

It's a scant silver lining though, since they've just crashed in the woods in Russia during a snowstorm.

Casey takes a deep breath, ignoring the fact that his chest already hurts. He pulls his coat and his shirt back and in the half-light, sees bruising already forming out from where the seat-belt caught him. He muses that he might have a cracked rib or two, though it's a preferable alternative to being launched through the windshield.

Carefully, he leans against the center console, pulling his legs out from under the crumbled dashboard. It's difficult, more difficult than it should be, and he wonders just how badly the car is smashed up. He gets his left leg free, then hisses in pain as he tries to extricate his right as fire flares through his knee. "Dammit," he breathes, before steeling himself and working his leg the rest of the way free. He stands partially on the dash with his left foot, bracing himself awkwardly so he doesn't fall on Billy, then gingerly undoes the seat-belt.

From there, he's able to sort of step, sort of duck out the windshield, and drop with a soft sound into the snow.

From outside the car, Casey's finally able to assess the damage.

The car is totalled. He's frankly impressed he's even alive; the hood is crumpled in like an accordion around a tree they hit head on, the bumper folded like paper and the frame half-rent apart. The axel is clean off and there's a long trail of disturbed snow leading back to the road.

The snow comes up to Casey's knees, and he knows it'd be thigh-deep if they weren't in the cover of the pines. He had the good sense to wear a coat, but it's bitter cold out nonetheless.

The car, at least, offered a bit of protection from the bite of the wind, but Casey's seen too many engine fires to want to stay put in the vehicle. As it is, he thinks he can smell gasoline through the sensory-numbing cold.

It would be cruel irony to burn to death in a snowstorm.

But while Casey is out of the wreckage, Billy isn't, and that's something that needs to be remedied. The car is tilted now, but not entirely on its side - the upper frame of the driver's side is rammed up against another tree, offering a narrow gap between the door and the ground.

Pulling Billy out through the windshield will be hard, especially if his legs are caught beneath the crumpled dash. The door is the best bet - providing Casey can even get it open.

He blows on his hands, trying to work some warmth back into the digits, then ducks down into the snow and examines the buckled door. The proximity of the tree doesn't afford much clearance; but while Billy is tall, he's all gangly limbs and fairly lean, so he ought to squeeze through. And if he can't get it open, the window -

Casey swallows. The window is cracked. He can see Billy through it, lying against the fractured glass, eyes closed and face pale - but just barely. Because in between the glass and Billy there's a lot of blood, pooling into the cracks and painting them crimson.

It's hard to make out much, but Casey can guess. Billy's head slammed against the window in the crash; hard enough to crack the glass, and hard enough to split open Billy's scalp. He tries to reassure himself with the knowledge that scalp wounds often bleed copiously even when they aren't serious.

If the trauma is serious, well, Casey will come to that eventually.

But before he can really assess Billy's condition, he needs to get him out. Grabbing the door handle and gritting his teeth against the cold that creeps through his fingers, Casey pulls. Hard.

The door groans, but doesn't budge. Casey swears. The metal is dented and twisted and the stupid mechanisms are always so damn fragile. But the sight of blood has adrenaline running in Casey's veins, and he pulls harder, ignoring the pain in his knee as he lifts a foot and braces it against the car for leverage. He growls and heaves, the metal protesting even as he feels something buckle. Then it gives and Casey falls back with a soft 'whump' into the snow, the door swinging open. Billy falls half out, hanging from his seat-belt like a ragdoll.

Casey scrambles to his feet, then kneels next to the car, propping Billy up against his shoulder as he works to undo the seat-belt. Some of Billy's blood drips against his neck and Casey cringes inwardly, tearing at the mangled mess that was the steering column, trying to make room for Billy's legs. It's arduous and awkward, but eventually he gets his teammate free from the wreck, laying him out in the snow.

"Collins?" he says, lightly tapping numb fingers against Billy's cheek. "Hey, can you hear me?"

Billy twitches and his brow furrows, but he doesn't open his eyes or otherwise acknowledge Casey, which is a bad sign. A quick examination reveals a nasty gash across his temple and up into his hairline. Casey prods it lightly, and is thankful that he doesn't see bone. He hopes that the head injury isn't that bad; that maybe, they've gotten lucky.

Looking around at the still-falling snow, however, that doesn't seem terribly likely. Their luck has been questionable this whole mission, and now he and Billy are crashed out in the wilderness. And, he recalls with a grimace, there are similarly stranded Russians in the forest not too far from them. They can only be a tenth, maybe two tenths of a mile from where they lost the last truck, and if there are survivors...

Then Casey and Billy could be sitting ducks here. The one advantage to the snowfall is that it can cover their tracks if they move.

Casey wraps his frozen fingers around his neck, warming them up with the heat from his core, then starts going through Billy's pockets until he finds the small lighter the Scot always carries, even though he doesn't smoke. Flicking it open, he hits the small red button that lights up the emergency beacon; rescue ought to be on its way now, at least. How long it will take, however, remains to be seen. Casey pulls the zipper of his jacket all the way to his chin and then removes his scarf; he wraps it around Billy's head, for purposes of warmth as much as for a bandage. He positions the Scot's hands so they're in his pockets instead of in the snow, then heads back toward the car, which is smoking slightly now.

Clambering back up over the hood (which is harder to climb up than it was to climb down), he leans through the windshield and wrestles with the demolished glove box until he manages to break it open. Out fall some sundry items; a couple of maps, an old repair manual, some trash, and a broken pair of sunglasses. But he also retrieves a flashlight and – sweet merciful God - a pair of gloves, which he promptly pulls on. He hops back down, then circles around to the trunk, which opens fairly easily. There isn't much of use there – a spare tire, some antifreeze, and an ice scraper – but he does pull out the musty quilt someone wrapped the antifreeze jug in to keep it from rolling around. It smells like mold, but it's better than nothing.

Billy hasn't stirred this whole time, which has Casey worried. He works out a lot, and he can lift significantly more than his own body weight, but he's not sure he can haul Billy very far with a busted knee through several feet of snow. But when he leans down next to the Scot this time, Billy groans and his eyes flutter, dislodging the tiny flakes that have alighted on his lashes.

"Ow," Billy says after a few seconds in which Casey has been holding his breath. He stares up for a few moments, then his vision tracks to the side until he's looking at Casey. "Next time, you drive."

Casey snorts. "Agreed," he says. "How are you feeling?"

Billy makes a face. "Sore. Head feels like I got hit with a sledgehammer, and I may have cracked some ribs," he says. His speech is a bit slurred, though Casey isn't sure if that's from the concussion or the cold.

"Your damn hard head broke the window," Casey remarks, wrapping the blanket around the Scot's shoulders as he helps him sit up.

Billy chuckles weakly. "Well, that explains the headache, at least."

"Can you stand?"

Billy's expression wavers. "Well, there's one way to find out."

Casey takes Billy's arm, then pulls. Billy gets his legs under him and looks like he might topple for a moment, but manages to stay upright as Casey steps in close for support.

Billy's white as a sheet, and his eyes glaze briefly, but then he smiles at Casey, who doesn't miss that he's cradling his other arm close to his chest in a way that doesn't seem to be for warmth. "Shall we?"

Casey purses his lips together, then pulls the flashlight out and switches it on, illuminating a swath of snow before them in the beam. Slowly, they begin to walk, slogging through the deep powder, leaning on one another for support. Casey's knee is throbbing and Billy's balance is off, but they're alive and they're moving.

Now they just need to keep it that way.

-o-

Billy's not sure whether he should be relieved or concerned when he starts to lose feeling. On the one hand, the numbness dulls the ache in his arm and his head. On the other, Billy doesn't really fancy freezing to death on this mission. He and Casey both survived the crash, but though the impact didn't kill them, there's a chance the elements still will. And that's on Billy's head, since he was the one at the wheel.

Getting himself killed is stupid.

Getting Casey killed...

The other operative is limping, so Billy tries not to let him carry too much of Billy's weight, but where the world keeps tipping and spinning, he's having a hard time. His head is pounding and he feels like he might retch a few times, though he keeps it down. The bleeding on his head seems to have stopped at least, and he idly wonders what the freezing point of blood is. He's not sure he wants to find out.

It's one step after another. His feet are frozen, his boots providing insufficient warmth for this sort of trek, but he keeps moving them one in front of the other. He's numb to everything else. Just one step, then another, onward through the dark and the cold.

Until Billy takes a step and the world abruptly leans to the left. He tries to correct but he can't, and then he's falling as Casey shouts his name...

The world goes dim for a bit, then there's an excruciatingly bright light shining in his eyes and Billy cries out, trying to lift his hands to cover his face.

Casey moves the flashlight beam away. "Stay with me, Collins," he growls.

"Sorry," Billy manages, blinking. There are tears springing to his eyes but they freeze to his cheeks soon after falling. "Just a wee spot of vertigo, I fear..."

"Your pupils are sluggish," Casey snaps.

"Well, you did say something about my hard head..."

Casey's face is pinched and gray. "We'll find a spot to hunker down. I don't think either of us is going to make it a lot farther."

Billy frowns. He's not sure how far they've gotten or how long they've been walking as the trees all look the same and he's lost all sense of time. "Dragunov's goons?"

Casey snorts. "I think we've put them well behind us. If they're alive and they managed to track us through this mess, I think they damn well _deserve_to catch us."

"Mmm," is all Billy can think to say, because his head hurts and he's so tired and cold and he just really wants to lie here in the snow and sleep...

"Collins!"

Casey is tapping his face and Billy opens his eyes again, wondering when he closed them.

"Come on, up," Casey grumbles, grabbing Billy from beneath the armpits and not giving him much choice. Billy groans in protest, head spinning, but Casey's all-but carrying him now.

"Wher' we goin'?" Billy slurs, swallowing another wave of nausea.

"There's a pine up ahead that'll give us some shelter," Casey explains, though Billy has to replay the words in his mind a few times before they sink in. "Just a tiny bit farther..."

A tiny bit farther. One foot in front of the other. Billy drags his legs through the snow, leaning heavily on Casey, even though his body balks at the movement. A tiny bit farther... a few more steps...

When they finally get to the towering, ancient evergreen whose lower branches brush the ground, Billy's ready to collapse. Casey pulls some of the boughs aside to reveal a cozy little space between the branches and the trunk, where only a scant bit of snow has permeated.

It looks quite nice, Billy thinks, tiredly.

He's just so tired...

It'll be a nice place... to rest...

-o-

Casey tries to catch Billy as he goes down, but then his knee gives and they both fall, Casey cursing violently as pain shoots up his leg and the flashlight vanishes in the snow. Still, Billy at least waited until they'd found the tree, so once the pain abates enough for Casey to move, it doesn't take much more effort to pull Billy into the shelter of the pine.

Which is good, because Casey doesn't have much strength left. Between the wearing presence of the cold, the strain of his knee, and the exertion of half-carrying Collins, he's ready to collapse himself.

Once they're both beneath the tree, he pulls the drenched gloves off and unzips his jacket, holding his waxy hands against the bare skin there until he's hit with the agonizing pins-and-needles of sensation returning. His fingers go from white to red and begin to swell as circulation returns, and Casey bites his lip against the discomfort. Frostnip hurts like hell, but the pain means everything is still attached and alive, which is a good thing.

The area beneath the tree is still cold, but it's out of the wind and the dense cover of needles holds all the snow away; the layers of wood and snow have actually provided some semblance of insulation and really, in a location this remote, it's the best shelter they could hope for.

Casey hopes it's enough. Ideally, they'd light a fire, but the emergency beacon doesn't double as an actual lighter, and even if they had flame, Casey isn't sure he'd be able to find enough dry tinder to keep a fire burning. He and Billy will have to depend on their own bodies for heat if they want to make it through the night.

The pain in his hands abates enough for him to flex all his fingers (though the joints are swollen and stiff), and he moves to Billy's side. Untying the scarf, he inspects Billy's head injury; the bleeding has stopped, though the side of Billy's head and face are now livid with bruising. Rolling up the Scot's sleeve, he winces sympathetically at the purpling around Billy's wrist, which is at the least sprained, at worst, broken. Casey uses the scarf and a nearby stick to splint it in event of the latter, then wraps the blanket tighter around Billy's shivering shoulders. Neither of them are dressed for a night out in the cold, and while they're out of the wind, it's a bit of a trade off, because now they aren't moving either, and with the stillness Casey knows that hypothermia remains an insidious threat. The cold will creep up on them, if they aren't careful, and settle in deep.

He pulls the beacon out and checks it - the red light is still on. And there's really nothing more Casey can do, which is slightly infuriating. Casey has conditioned his body to be a weapon so that he can be an instrument of _action_. Though he has patience for physical challenges in which his personal skills of stamina and endurance are key, he doesn't handle sitting around and being helpless particularly well. He isn't proving anything here. Just surviving, and hoping Billy does too, instead of going into a coma or freezing to death.

The Scot moans faintly, then curls in a bit on himself, pulling his knees up and retracting his lengthy frame out of instinct. Casey adjusts the musty quilt, tucking it in around Billy as best he can before leaning back and sitting against the tree's trunk. He pulls his arms out of the sleeves of his jacket and wraps them around his torso instead, keeping as much of his core warm as he can.

It's going to be a long night.

-o-

Billy sleeps fitfully. He dreams that his bones turn to ice and become brittle and shatter, and when he wakes, he can feel himself shivering. He reaches over for the extra blankets he always keeps on the bed, but the movement sends pain shooting up his wrist and he gasps. Then he remembers that he isn't in his bed, there are no extra blankets, and he's in a snowstorm in the middle of a brutal Russian winter.

Billy groans, hugging his injured wrist close and squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, willing the whole bloody circumstance to just _go away_. But when he opens his eyes, he's still cold, there's still snow about with the wind howling outside their shelter, his head is pounding ferociously, and nothing appears to have improved. So Billy sighs and turns toward where Casey is, waiting for the world to right itself from its drunken tilting and then come into focus.

For a second he thinks the older operative is asleep, but then he sees that Casey's eyes are open. He's motionless, leaned up against the bole of the tree. One knee is pulled close for warmth, but the other leg is awkwardly extended. Billy winces a bit, remembering Casey's limp, and how heavily he'd leaned on the other man. "Was I out long?" he asks, clearing his throat a bit. His tongue feels heavy and thick in his mouth.

Casey shrugs. "Wasn't paying much attention, to be honest."

Billy nods, then regrets it as his stomach turns. He tries to think of something other than the dizziness. "Reckon it's... a torn ACL?" he asks, finding that the shivers have stolen his breath.

Casey's eyes flicker down toward his leg. "Possibly."

A moment passes.

"Probably," he amends grudgingly.

Billy grimaces in sympathy; they'll both be out of commission for a bit if they get out of here. No, when they get out of here, he reminds himself, though a distant part of his mind finds that notion a wee bit optimistic. "Think Michael and Rick... will waltz on by soon?" he asks breathily, gazing up into the crisscrossing branches above and finding himself mesmerized by the patterns.

Casey hesitates, then shakes his head. "Even if they've tracked us, there's no way they're making it out here in this storm. We'll be stuck here until the weather improves."

It's a grim revelation, but Billy tries to take it in stride. "Well, I'm sure... it'll blow itself out soon," he murmurs, leaning his head back down on the ground and taking a few shaky breaths while trying not to think about how cold he is.

Casey grunts, but says nothing.

"You okay?" Billy ventures after several seconds of silence, as it occurs to him belatedly that Casey is being more reticent than usual.

"Fine," Casey says stiffly.

Billy watches him, trying to suss out what's wrong. Normally he can get a pretty good read on Malick; they've known each other long enough that it isn't hard. But right now there's just so bloody much wrong, it could be just about anything, and Billy's head is achy and muddled and everything hurts, so his powers of deductive reasoning are at less than peak capacity. Just focusing his eyes is an act of will, let alone his thoughts. And Casey isn't exactly helping to shed clarity.

"I see your personality... isn't at odds with the temperature," he remarks a bit petulantly. Then he regrets it almost instantly. Because this isn't Casey's fault. Casey didn't fail to keep their cover intact. Casey wasn't the one who hotwired the car, or who drove it off the road into a forest in the middle of a sodding blizzard.

Casey's not to blame.

"I'm sorry," Billy murmurs, and he feels drained by the words.

Casey grunts and shrugs.

"I'm sorry fer all... this," Billy says, pulling a hand out from under the blanket to make a small gesture to their surroundings. "I buggered everyfin' up."

Casey finally turns his head toward Billy, frowning. "You must've hit your head harder than I thought."

At that, Billy laughs a bit, feebly, teeth chattering through his chuckles. "Quite possibly. Probably, even."

Casey doesn't laugh though. He looks at Billy with an inscrutable expression for a few moments, then returns to having a staring contest with the branches, gazing out into the dark.

And the silence is killing Billy (along with the cold and who knows what else). There's silence and there's darkness and the cold is in his bones, turning him to brittle ice...

He clears his throat. "Some say the world will end in fire... Some say in ice," he says, and wonders if the words were jarred loose from the depths of his memory by the blow to his head. "From what I've tasted of desire, I hold... with those who favor fire," he continues, then pauses to catch his breath and squeeze his eyes shut against fresh nausea. "But if it had to perish twice, I think... I know enough of hate, To say that for destruction ice... Is also great... and would suffice."

Casey doesn't break his thousand yard stare.

"Robert Frost," Billy adds. "Even the name is... oddly apropos, I think." His eyelids are drooping again. The cold weighs heavily on him, and the energy expended simply shivering seems to leave him spent. "I suppose he might be right... about ice..."

His eyes drift shut and Billy folds into himself even closer, but there's nothing but the ache and the cold and the dark now, dragging him down into fitful blackness.

-o-

Casey is worried.

He's cold. He's very cold, and intimately aware of the way his heart is slowing and all his body's systems are becoming sluggish as his metabolism fails to keep up. The circulation has diminished to his extremities, but he's in too much pain to get up and move around.

Cold...

But more than that, there's Billy. The Scot drifts in and out, and when he's awake, he's not fully there more often than not. He mumbles and quips poetry and has to close his eyes a lot, and he sometimes whimpers in his sleep. Casey is more concerned than he's quite willing to admit about his teammate's condition. But there's nothing he can do, so he retreats with his useless worrying while Billy lies on the ground and mumbles and shivers.

Then, Billy stops shivering.

And it's more than worry that pools in Casey's gut; the icy feeling isn't from the low temperature.

It's from fear.

"Billy?" he calls, breaking the silence. The falling snow has encased the tree and cut them off entirely from the world; if the wind still howls outside, Casey can't hear it.

And he can't hear Billy's teeth chattering either. If not for the small puff of visible breath rising from the Scot's lips...

Casey drags himself over, wincing as he jars his knee, which has swollen tightly now against his pantleg. Billy's lips are blue, and there's frost patterning his hair. Casey swallows, and when he pulls a hand free from the warmth of his jacket to tap Billy's cheek, the skin is cool to the touch.

Casey curses. He curses the Russians and he curses the car and he curses Billy's driving, and more than anything he curses the cold.

The storm is hopefully over, but help could be a long way out yet. Billy is like ice now, and Casey needs to warm him up.

"You're lucky I hold moderate affection for you," he grumbles at Billy as he unzips his coat and fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, shuddering as the cold air hits his exposed skin. Pulling the mildewed blanket away, he strips Billy to the waist, being mindful of the Scot's damaged wrist, then lays the shirt and coat against Billy's front as he lies down behind him. Moving close, he presses his bare chest against Billy's back and drags the blanket back over both of them as he pulls Billy close and wraps his arms around him in an awkwardly intimate pose. He knows if Billy were awake, he'd be making off-color jokes and waggling his eyebrows stupidly about the whole scenario, but Billy isn't awake and that's part of the problem. Casey needs to warm Billy up, and the only warmth Casey has to offer is his own.

So he holds Billy tight and hopes that it'll be enough and they'll both survive to be embarrassed in the morning.

_Some say the world will end in fire... Some say in ice..._

But this isn't how it ends. It doesn't end with two men in the snow. It doesn't end with a car spinning out. It doesn't end with shivering and vanishing puffs of breath that grow fewer and farther between.

It doesn't.

Casey leans his head against Billy and closes his eyes.

It doesn't end...

-o-

There's light. And there are voices, but they're muffled, as if from a long way off. Casey knows he should get up, but he doesn't want to. He's cold and he aches and there's something pressed against him that feels like the only warmth in the world. He keeps his eyes closed and hopes that whoever it is goes away.

Casey has earned some damn rest.

There's more sound, then a soft whisper of something pouring, falling, followed by a muffled thump. Then there's more light behind Casey's eyelids and a fresh breeze of cold air against his face. He squints, opening one eye, and peers at the figure silhouetted in blinding whiteness...

"I found them!" a voice calls. "They're over here!"

"Are they alive?"

"Casey? Casey, Billy, are you with me?"

Casey groans. This elicits a laugh of relief from Rick as he ducks between the snow-laden branches. "Talk about a needle in a haystack! We almost walked right by you guys..."

"That doesn't speak well for your powers of observation, Martinez," Casey hears himself grumble, his mouth on autopilot. Blinking, he pulls himself up slightly, tugging his jacket closed as he sits upright, mindful of his injured knee. Everything aches and a downward glance confirms a whole spread of bruises from the accident. He's cold still, and he feels like death not-quite-warmed-over, but Michael and Rick are finally here, which means he and Billy made it through the night.

"You two have a nice cuddle?" Michael asks, peering in to the gap beneath the tree with a smirk.

Casey glares at him, then takes hold of Billy's shoulder and gives him a shake. "Rise and shine, Collins."

And Billy doesn't move. Not a snore, not a groan, not a whimper.

Michael frowns. Casey swallows. "Billy!" he says, raising his voice and jostling Billy harder.

But Billy doesn't wake up, and the pit of Casey's stomach grows colder than ever.

-o-

Billy's breathing, but his pulse is sluggish and erratic under Casey's fingers. When they pull him out into the light, Michael looks into the Scot's eyes one at a time, and makes a face. "Pupils are uneven," he reports grimly. Casey takes a shuddering breath and curses.

Michael has Casey climb on the skimobile behind him, and Billy is tied to the back of Martinez' machine. Casey doesn't remember much of the ride back. He's still so cold, and when they get to the all-wheel-drive SUV parked on the road with the trailer hitch for the skimobiles, Casey barely makes it in to the backseat before he's out again.

He wakes once or twice; Billy's lying across the backseat, his head positioned in Casey's lap, and they're both wrapped in thermal blankets. It staves off the chill pleasantly, and Casey's finally starting to feel warm. He can hear Martinez and Michael speaking in hushed tones up front, but when he tries to focus on what they're saying, all he can think of is how warm and soft the blanket is, and then he's back under.

-o-

"Casey?"

Casey opens his eyes. It's dimmer now - the brilliant white of sunlight on snow is gone, and so is the sharpness of winter. From that, he immediately deduces that he's inside. He's lying on his back and there's a weight on top of him which a cursory downward glance confirms is composed of stacks of heavy blankets.

His eyes flicker left, and there's Michael, sitting in a rather rickety armchair pulled up next to the bed, a book over his knee. "You awake?"

Casey grunts. "I am now." He tries to sit up, then inhales sharply at the pain. His shirt is still unbuttoned and there's livid bruising running from his upper right collarbone to the left side of his abdomen. His head and neck ache, and when he pulls the blankets back he sees that his knee is in a brace.

"You got pretty banged up in the crash," Michael remarks, and there's the barest hint of concern underneath his conversational tone. "There's ibuprofen on the table next to you."

Casey reaches for the bottle next to the radio gratefully and dry swallows two tablets. He notices that there are a few empty blisters on his fingers as he fumbles with the cap; he winces, then considers himself lucky he didn't lose any digits. "We're in a hotel?" he asks, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress, even though he wants nothing more than to lie back on the pillows.

"Yeah, back in Achinsk," Michael confirms. "You've been out of it for a while."

The hotel is a little worn down, a little seedy - the sheets are scratchy and the ceiling is stained and everything smells vaguely of cigarette smoke - but it's far from the worst place Casey's woken up. He'll take a hotel bed over a hospital one any day of the week, and he's glad not to have some Russian quack poking at his injured knee. He frowns though, because there's something eating at the back of his mind; something he needs to remember...

And then he does. Achinsk. Russia. Dragunov. The mission, the fallout, the chase, the crash, the cold -

- Billy. Not waking up.

He swallows. "Collins?"

Michael's expression is guarded. "Martinez is with him at the hospital. We had to use a couple of back-up covers I brought just in case."

Casey works his jaw, remembering how pale Collins was; how he stopped shivering in the middle of the night, after rambling on about some poem with fire and ice. "Is he...?"

Michael smiles tiredly. "Martinez just called, and he's gonna be fine. He had a small bleed in his brain, but they managed to take care of it. Turns out the hypothermia helped lower the swelling from the concussion. Kinda lucky, actually."

Lucky. This has to be one of the most unlucky missions Casey's ever been on. And yet... Billy's going to be fine. He was frozen and insensate the last time Casey saw him, so it's a bit hard to wrap his head around. Michael doesn't (usually) lie to him, but he finds the need to ask, anyway: "Can we go see him?"

For a second he half expects Michael to say no, but then the other operative stands and crosses over to the corner, where someone's propped up a battered set of crutches. "Put a half-decent jacket on this time," he says, placing the crutches against the bed with a wink. "I'll go warm up the car."

-o-

The hospital is small, and as they walk down the narrow corridor (well, Michael walks; Casey hobbles), Casey finds himself doubting the efficacy of such a meagre facility. But when they get to Billy's room in the ICU, he finds some of his concerns are assuaged. Because Billy is propped up on pillows and appears to be awake.

He also looks like hell.

There's a bandage wrapped around his head, covering much of his skull, though there are a few gaps where little black tufts of hair poke through. From the edge, a few stitches poke out near his temple, along with a deep and colorful bruise that runs down to his jaw. His arm is in a cast, held in a sling next to his chest, and there's a pulse monitor nearby. Rick sits beside him, smiling and stifling a laugh at a joke Billy must've just told.

Billy grins a bit weakly as they come in. His eyes are still a bit glassy, and he looks exhausted, but his face isn't pinched with pain and he's not shuddering, curled in on himself with blue lips. Though the drugs they have him on may have something to do with that, Casey reflects, stealing a sideways look at the IV. For a second, he half-pines for something a tad stronger than ibuprofen, but between pain and medications, pain is less likely to dull Casey's edge. So he'll suck it up and wait until his regular, _trusted _doctor can give his knee a look when he's stateside.

"Afternoon, lads," Billy says, and while his voice is a bit quieter than usual, and not as overblown with enthusiasm, it's still reassuringly Billy-esque.

"How's the head?" Michael asks.

Billy shrugs with one shoulder. "It smarts a wee bit, but I've had worse cracks to the noggin. Reckon I'll be fine in no time."

"Good," Michael answers, looking somewhat relieved. "Then we can see about getting you out of here ASAP, before any of Dragunov's guys get wise. Martinez?"

Rick looks up. "Yeah?"

"I don't speak Russian. Let's go," Michael says, jerking his head to the door. Rick offers Billy an apologetic look, then gets up to follow, leaving Casey and Billy alone.

-o-

Billy hesitates as Michael and Rick leave the room, then offers Casey a sheepish smile. "I suppose thanks are in order."

Casey shrugs, walking over to the small window overlooking the street. "For what?" he answers blankly, not looking at Billy.

Billy swallows. Casey's being... cold. And perhaps Billy ought to be used to that by now, but after everything...

"I wasn't that out of it the other night," he says. "I remember it. Well, most of it, anyway." Bits are fuzzy and he knows he passed out at some point since he remembers reciting some poetry and then waking up here with nothing in between. But he remembers the crash and the hike through the snow and shivering under the tree. "You hauled my arse out of a wrecked car and dragged me through a blizzard on a bum leg until we found shelter. If that doesn't merit a simple 'thank you' at the minimum, I'm not sure what does."

The older operative grunts and shrugs, and Billy doesn't miss the way he flinches slightly at the motion. Casey's working hard to conceal the extent of his injuries.

Casey works hard to conceal a lot of things. The other night, under the tree, he was as frigid as the temperatures. But when Billy woke up, Martinez told him about how he and Michael had found them...

Casey looks cold, but Billy knows better.

"I suppose I should also thank you for saving my life. Keeping me warm an' all," he presses.

Casey stiffens and turns, finally facing Billy.

Billy shrugs again, but he doesn't break eye contact now that Casey's looking at him. "Rick told me. 'Bout our... er, positioning."

Casey's eyes narrow. His entire posture seems to be telling Billy to drop the subject.

But Billy doesn't. Instead, he grins impishly. "I have to say, I'm not normally the little spoon when snuggling, but this time I can't say I particularly mind..."

Casey growls low in his throat, obviously uncomfortable. "It wasn't snuggling, you idiot, it was sharing warmth to save your damn life–"

"–I know," Billy quickly interjects. "I just needed you to admit it. So I can thank you."

Casey seems momentarily torn, trying to keep his face blank despite the microexpressions of shock and frustration and anger and fear all warring underneath the mask. Then, his shoulders slump as he seems to resign to defeat, his head hanging. "You stopped shivering. Scared the crap outta me."

"Well, I appreciate you sacrificing your dignity for my benefit," Billy answers, offering a small, sincere smile. "I just wanted you to know that."

Casey snorts. "Just don't get used to it."

"Aaaand there's the Casey Malick everyone knows," Billy announces, "the ice cold human weapon." He leans forward with a conspiratorial wink. "Don't worry; I won't tell anyone how warm and fuzzy you really are. And I'd know from experience!"

Casey rolls his eyes, but Billy doesn't miss the faint trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Just remind me not to let you drive anymore, okay?"

"At the very least, from now on, all getaway cars will be outfitted with four-wheel-drive," Billy agrees with a nod.

"And if you tell anyone back at Langley about what Rick said –"

Billy's grin widens. "About how lovely a cuddler you are, you mean?"

Casey's glower only serves to make the Scot laugh. "I'll dump you back out in the snow myself, Collins."

"Right, right... your secret is safe with me." Billy leans back on the pillows and finds that he's worn himself out. "Must say, though, it's a pleasant surprise that we made it out of there."

Casey raises an eyebrow. "You expected otherwise?"

Billy shudders slightly. "That much dark and cold... did sort of feel like it was all ending," he says. "_'Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice...'"_

"It doesn't end at all," Casey snaps back. "Not if I can help it."

Billy considers this for a moment. "No," he says finally, regarding Casey inscrutably. "I suppose it doesn't."

It had felt like the end. But Casey saved them both. Casey, the pessimist who refused to give up; the ice cold human weapon whose warmth could save a life; a walking contradiction, and the man Billy probably trusts most in this world.

"It doesn't end like that, at any rate," Casey amends, less curtly. He sighs, looks down, then looks at Billy, whose energy is spent. "I should go find out how Rick and Michael are. See if we'll be getting out of here anytime soon."

"I wouldn't mind that," Billy muses. "The nurses aren't even all that pretty."

Casey smirks a bit at that, then gets up and heads for the door.

Before he leaves, however, Billy musters up the energy to speak two more words:

"Thank you."

Casey hesitates.

"You're welcome," he murmurs. Then he's out the door.

-o-

They wrap things up with the mission; it's not ideal, but they have valuable new intel on the syndicate, and Dragunov's operation has suffered a substantial setback, so it goes down in the books as a win. Michael seems chipper about it anyhow, and within the next day they manage to get Billy out AMA and on a plane home.

When Rick suggests getting a rental car, both Billy and Casey immediately suggest a cab instead.

Back in the states, Billy's going to be desk-bound for a bit while his arm heals, and until he stops having dizzy spells. Casey's got a torn ACL and has to schedule an operation, grumbling endlessly in the office about the recovery time. The details of their night in the blizzard, however, remain mercifully confidential. Higgins grumbles no more than usual at all of them, and barring the healing process, life gets mercifully back to normal.

Some nights, Casey comes over to Billy's motel and they turn the heat up, pop open a few beers, and watch a game on the telly, while Billy tries to explain the finer points of British football to Casey, who persists in referring to it as soccer. They don't talk about Russia. They don't need to; everything that needs to be said already has.

And while the winter winds and rains may blow and pour miserably outside, there's warmth enough to get them through.

There's warmth enough.


End file.
